Freaky Friday (bonus post for the night owls).

Catch the wind, see us spin, sail away, leave the day, way up high in the sky.
But the wind won't blow, you really shouldn't go, it only goes to show
That you will be mine, by taking our time.

And if you say to me tomorrow
Oh what fun it all would be.
Then what's to stop us, pretty baby
but what is and what should never be.

Lochlan poked his head into the kitchen just as I was putting away the last of the dishes from dinner. Perfect timing. He had disappeared right after eating, telling me he had to run a few errands, heading out with the truck, newly driving again now that his arm is less sore. Finally, a little less restless now that he can get out and around.

Hey, Fidget?

Hmmm, Locket. I am ignoring him.

Bridget. Oh, there's his serious, logical voice. I turn around. He has a bouquet of roses. Real ones this time. And they're not on fire. Hey, we're making progress at least.

Truce? He smells dauntless and a little like shampoo.

Maybe.

Happy Valentine's Day, for real this time. He turned to leave again.

I forgive you. I said it quietly and he stopped and put one hand up on the door frame but then he kept going. He'll come back to this when he's ready. This is how we do things, he and I.

A quiet stream of unconsciousness.

I lasted through the three extra cups of coffee this morning and now that the caffeine has worn off the pain is back.

Ow, my head. This headache seems to show itself every third month and last for around five days. It's just lovely, thanks for asking. At least it's as predictable as the migraines used to be, maybe that's what it still is. I don't know. I've had bad headaches since I was a child, but they turned almost debilitating in university and Cole used to take me to the emergency room where they would shoot my hips full of Gravol and Toradol. One to ease the pain and the other to keep me from throwing up. It burned like hell.

The last time I went to the hospital for help I was pregnant with Ruth. After that I figured I was a mom now and moms have got to be some sort of invincible. Only I'm not invincible, and I don't know why I try to be. I just keep taking ibuprofen and drinking coffee and telling myself it's not so bad, when most people would be on the goddamned floor by now.

Others have told me it must not truly be migraines or I would be on the floor. Yes, I'm aware of that but like I said, the pain threshold, it's very high. So high I have broken bones and kept going, figuring they would heal. I had a caesarean without drugs once. I've been tested and I've seen specialists and I've withstood it, so don't tell me what it is and what I should do. I just never talk about it much anymore. Everyone's an expert on three things in life: babies, migraines and grief. This is why when you meet me I may not talk out loud. If you say the wrong thing you'll meet a stream of East coast Tourette's, for I have no patience for generalizations.

AKA Shut the fuck up, unless you fit in my shoes (see next paragraph) and have walked a mile in them. Easier said than done.

I'm actually pretty sure that this pain is a brain tumor and someday it's going to kill me midstep. Abruptly. Switched off, just like that. I hope I'm really old and holding onto something when it happens. That would be better than standing in the shop trying to decide between two pairs of Louboutins, now wouldn't it? Or perhaps just about to turn off the oven. I don't think that would be good either.

I like to keep things organized and not be a burden, you see.

So I'm just putting that here that I'm sure it's a tumor and oh yes I Googled the symptoms and one should never do that and instead I should just tell you that I did have breakfast with Sam and his...paramour? Friend? and it was really nice and he was funny and sweet and a little bit good-looking and I have invited them both here for dinner this weekend and hopefully by then I will feel better and in the meantime I will call Caleb and apologize for swearing at him and telling him to send the construction workers home because I couldn't stand the noise.

Wish me luck. Bring me aspirin. And my apologies for being a tiny little crab tonight.

A star to call our own.

Sam is like me. When no one is around he turns the music up all the way and enters oblivion, letting the music soak in, marinating his flesh and his soul in melody.

We get along so well it's disgusting. He's one of those people that is very easy to talk to, so when he invites me over I know it's time to talk and I drop everything and go.

When I walked into the church this morning, I had the unfortunate timing of doing so within the first three seconds of the song that was playing, the next 37 seconds of which bring me to tears every goddamn time for the string arrangements and I had to sit down in the coat closet because I couldn't go further in.

I sat on the floor right there until he offered his hand.

Sorry, Bridget. It's an inspiring piece.

That it is. I don't even particularly like the lyrics but the intro is beyond beautiful.

It is.

What's on next? Just so I'm ready.

I'll turn it off so we can talk without yelling. He grins. Sam needs a haircut. Badly. He's starting to resemble a hobbit. Just taller. Samwise of the Shire. He pulls me up out of the closet and we walk down the hall to the kitchen. He ducks into his office to switch off the sound system. My smile is helpless. I'm never ever a fan of turning off the music but the only reason I knew what he said is because he'll tell me that's what he said when I ask him when he returns. Don't worry, we go through this every week or so.

He hurries back down the hall towards me. Want to go for a coffee?

Sure. What's up?

I have some news. With his hands jammed into his jeans pockets, rocking back on his heels, stupid grin still glued on. I think I already know. I drop my bag on the floor and wait.

I met someone.

When? Where? Who is she?

She's a...well, she's a he.

What?

He scrubbed at the back of his head with one hand and grinned wider. He...he's a man, Bridge.

(This closet is walk-in, apparently.)

Do I, do we get to meet him?

Eventually.

How long?

How long what? Well, I think I knew before Elisabeth left. I wasn't very fair to her and...

No, how long have you been dating this guy?

Since...November.

What? I start whacking him with my hands. You've been in a relationship for almost four months and you didn't tell me?

I didn't know how you would react. And I didn't know if we were going to get along as well as we are and yeah, it's been a while now, hasn't it?

Sam-

Bridget, you didn't need to deal with any more than you already have going on right now.

Wow. Let's backpedal just a little. You're my friend. Screw that, you're part of my family. If you can't share good news with us, who can you share it with?

You're the people I care about most in life. Therefore your opinions matter. Your reactions matter to me. No one else does. It's hard to face everyone.

Who else knows?

Nobody yet.

Can we have a meeting? Bout time there was some good news around my house. And when the dock is finished you can have your wedding there. It will be beautiful! We can-

Bridget!

What, Sam?

Does everyone who dates someone get married in your universe?

Of course, Sam. Life is short. Celebrate love. Make it a fairy tale. Go all out. What other way is better than that?

You're the eternal romantic aren't you?

Yes. And I make no apologies for it.

Good. I hope you never do.

Does this mean I can plan your wedding?

Okay, we're not going to move THAT fast, Bridget.

Can I at least know his name?

Yeah, I think we're going to go way slower than that even.

Can I throw you two a party? Like a coming-out party? Sorry, I don't know what else to call it.

Bridget-

Okay. Can we just get a pinata then?

A what?

A pinata! The tissue paper animals you whack with a baseball bat and candy falls out.

Um, okay?

Yes! I've always wanted one of those. I make a fist and bring it in to my side. Victory. When are you going to tell the boys?

I thought I might do that tonight, if you'll be with me when I tell them.

I can't think of anywhere I would rather be, Sam.

I got that same feeling tonight, watching the boys jump up and surround Sam. Hugging him, slapping his back, shaking his hands. Telling him they were happy for him. That feeling of the soaring opening notes from that song, like sometimes everything really does make sense. Like we're all heading in the directions where we are supposed to be heading. Maybe we're not all horrible, flawed and paltry human beings after all.

Maybe we are trying our very best.

Go, Sam. Go fall in love. It's about time.

So rattled I forgot to actually post this.

Every year around this time I put on my tightest corseted business dress, my highest killer stilettos and pull my hair into a tight chignon, secured with a glossy black pencil. Then I pick up my calculator with its three hundred buttons and I get to work, doing taxes. For the whole collective.

Every year I hold myself so tense I get headaches, neck aches and general all-over body aches. I have been known to paint rooms, reorganize my handbag and drink my face off instead of sitting down and starting the paperwork. Eventually I get my act together and churn out most of them in the same week. The dress and shoes change daily but the little scowl remains. I hate taxes but I refuse to let any of the boys pay a tax preparer to do the same job I can do (with a little prodding and a lot of promises of rewards).

This year Caleb gave me an extra week's leeway by not having the T4s prepared on time. Any other year the boys had their paperwork ready to roll and we had to wait for forms. This year the forms were out and we had to wait for Cale. And to top it off, he always throws a red herring into a box that is meaningless to everyone except the CRA and I have to sort out if it's important or not. Batman? He had the forms ready for me the first week of January.

Add in the fact that we're in a new province and I am still unfamiliar with the provincial tax laws. For example, we pay our own provincial health premiums here. Most other provinces roll them into taxes. Therefore, they can't be claimed under medical expenses. So yeah, a few fits and starts this week as I call the CRA several times just to make sure I'm not making any mistakes. So far so good.

Once I had everything I barricaded myself at the dining room table with many sharpened pencils and swear words. I looked up the word 'tax' on my blog, and then 'taxes' to show you exactly how tense I can get about finances and wound up reading the entry from where I sold the hundred year old castle that killed two men and had to be reinvented and left behind.

I did not cry, but I had that weird stinging ache start up behind my sinuses that means tears are imminent. So I came back to this page to finish up, because it's late and I need to pull dinner together. Dinner is in two shifts, remember? One for the children and the secondary boys who start early and roll in early and one for the princess and the primary boys, who usually roll in sometime between seven and eight at night, which makes for long days but I am far more rested than I was a year ago. And I can't really breathe in the corset but I look great, and between looking good and having a head for numbers I suppose one could do a lot worse.

But that's just me.

The taxes are done now at last and I'm going to go put on my pajamas and make a stiff drink for myself and spend the evening visiting with each of my boys to give them their good news. You see, not only do I do the paperwork but I keep a close eye on their totals to make sure they never have to pay in. Good luck getting that kind of service from some faceless tax preparation kiosk.

Also, I'm really cute in pajamas. So bring on the rewards. Lets start with a cookie and move on to sexual favors after that.

Unsound methods (Outstanding, red team. Outstanding.)

(You want to know who the memory thief really is? Well, I'll give you an epic hint. It isn't me.)

Complement the atmosphere
Fill the ground with all our tears
Dry them up to make it clear
We do no wrong

He holds out a rose. He's covered with grease, and still in his dark blue coverall suit from the garage. He was late leaving the shop because the owner wanted him to finish a brake job and then wait around for the customer who didn't want to leave his car overnight. The rose is artificial. The only place still open is the convenience store and he didn't have time to go to the bank anyway. It's 9:47 pm and I blew my curfew forty-seven minutes ago. As long as I say I was with Lochlan and not sitting on the swings in the park in total darkness trying to act bored instead of scared for three hours straight I won't get in any trouble.

I take the rose and he looks at his feet and shakes his head like he has water in his ears. Lochlan's self-doubt is as visible as his flaming hair

Happy Valentines Day, peanut.

I thrust forward the card I made for him. The envelope is too big, borrowed from the desk in the front hall. Maybe next year I'll have some money to buy a card with an envelope that matches but then again I probably won't. I'm a very good drawer though. Lochlan's been teaching me life studies or whatever he calls it. I draw him in poses. He gives me one minute per pose, sometimes five if he doesn't have to go to work early.

He opens the card.

I made it just for you! I crow.

He nods. I can tell. I love your artwork. I'm going to keep it forever, okay? Test me on that twenty years from now.

I will then. I smile, I am so pleased with myself when I make him happy.

So I got a new job, peanut. A job with the show. It starts at the end of May. I applied for it a couple weeks ago but I didn't want to tell anyone and jinx it. I won't have to work at the garage anymore.

Where will you be?

All over the east coast, even down to the US. All summer long. Maybe more once I'm done school. Midway and the circus too. I can alternate depending on what's happening.

I am so excited for him my heart catches in my throat. Never have I seen him so happy. I give him a hug and say Congratulations because that's what people tell you when something great happens to you and then I'm suddenly aware that the feeling I have isn't happiness for his news but an abrupt realization that he's leaving. He just GOT here, into my life.

I start to cry and drop the rose on the ground and he pulls me into his arms. I am now covered with grease and sweat and he holds me really tightly and rocks back and forth as we stand there and says to me, Now see, Bridget, that's the best part. You can come with me. Did you really think I would leave you behind?

Close the door before it's late
We were born to love and hate
Turn it down for our own sake
We do no wrong

You fill your ears with every note
Direction seems the only hope
Its crowded, let's create now
We do no wrong

He puts me back down and tries to wipe my cheeks with the cleanest parts of his hands. It doesn't work. Now I look like an extra from Apocalypse Now. We watched it in his parent's basement last week. They have a VCR. I didn't like it because it was about wars so I re-braided my hair and tried to appear interested, like the older kids seemed to be. I was just happy it was over, eventually.

And it also means next Valentine's Day I can give you something nicer. He picks up the rose and puts it between his teeth and winks at me.

I snatch the rose back from him and clutch it tightly. I don't know what he's talking about. How am I supposed to come with him?

Just think about it, Bridget. You can live in the midway. Ride every ride all day long. Have cotton candy for breakfast. Instead of visiting for a few nights you will be part of the show. I'm going to take the old camper or maybe even buy one from this guy the owner knows. It's a dream come true. No more shop hours and pink soap and crappy customers and low pay. I'll be in the entertainment industry. He grins, eyes sparkling in the dark.

His grin is contagious. I have no doubt he was born to charm. There's just something about him that makes him seem older than his years. Something about him that draws people in and holds their attention long after the lights go down and the rides are locked. Something that allows him to get away with things most people wouldn't dream of in a million years.

Common sense protects us
Everything affects us
To the outside light it's paradise
To the outside light it's paradise

I made him a new card this morning, a lot like that first one which he pulled out to show me. He's been using it as a bookmark for close to three decades now. Then he turned around and walked to the desk, and pulled out a big red fabric rose with a plastic stem, tag still attached. He gave it to me to hold while he dug his lighter out of his pocket.

And he set it on fire.

Power to weight ratio.

He presented me with the key. I jumped up and he lifted it way up over my head.

Tank is full, CD player is empty. He winked and I grinned.

How far? I ask eagerly.

Turn at Callaghan lake. But don't go to the lake. Then to Mission if you still need to stay out.

That's like four hours total.

And four back. Stay under the speed limit.

Yes, Dad.

He laughed. I'll tell Ben you're going.

I already did. He's getting his jacket. He's coming with me.

Oh. Well, then as long as the car is back by tomorrow disregard everything else. Well, except for the speed. Wait, does Ben even fit in that car?

Heh. I'll grease him up and push him in if he doesn't. Actually I might just anyway. That would be hot.

Bridget?

Yes, Caleb?

Please don't have sex in my car.

I turned around and walked out the door backwards, pointing at him. Don't you ruin my fun! And I laughed.

Honour-bound.

Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride

Well, you don't know what we can see
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free

And just like that he shapeshifts back into devil-form, loathe to have anyone else connect the dots the way I can, making pictures of death where they intended a rainbow or perhaps a duckling. Caleb appeared at the kitchen door this morning, coffee mug in hand, hair slicked back with Brylcreem in his more customary corporate Cary Grant style, cleanshaven, button-down shirt and dress pants. I am used to that. He's always looked like that once he was out of law school.

Cole was the one who looked like he fell out of a repurposed sixties musical with his Trey Anastasio hair and Jim Morrison beard, leather cord around his neck until it fell off and paint-spattered jeans that forced my knees apart and made me give up any idea of defense that I could come up with, if I tried, which I didn't/wouldn't/couldn't. He would tuck his hair behind his ears and my dress would fall off.

So forgive me if I still feel like that every now and then.

Cole would have been forty-four this year. His hair would have been starting to see a few strands of grey, like Caleb's. Maybe he would have laugh lines like Caleb. Maybe he would have calmed down a little but he still would have ruled our lives, a job Lochlan took over and still resents to this day.

No one minds if I let my brain off leash. It is proclaimed to be healthy. It's proclaimed to be a good coping mechanism. Someone might be wrong on that note but hey, give me oxygen and I will breathe. Call me a duck and I'll follow you into the filthy pond in the middle of a city park and go for a swim.

It's Caleb's week to take the kids to school. We trade off mornings and afternoons. I like pick-up because I can hear all about their days and see that everything is in their backpacks that they will need to do their homework. He likes to not have to watch the clock in the afternoons when he gets buried in the odd consulting job or catching up with his old boys network or decides to practice his evil. Lochlan doesn't take the kids to school, everyone was fine with the status quo remaining the way it always was, children included, as they have input now in all sorts of things that used to be relegated to an eventual throw-down in the backyard and because of my need for a calmer house for their benefit there won't be any more of those. Lochlan's going to learn to rule his own reactions with the same self-control he runs the house with. Which is very little in all honesty but something is better than nothing.

A dirty pond is better than no river for miles and evil is better than dead.

Yes.

Evil is better than dead.

This is why I can't have nice things.

Jeans and a fisherman knit sweater. Hiking boots. Umbrella. Beard. Hair about four times longer than usual, for he has abandoned his monthly close crop and clean shave in favor of this rugged sort of casual mayhem of an appearance. I guess I didn't notice, to tell you the truth.

And then I walked out onto the verandah to say goodbye to the children this morning and saw Cole and felt my heart drop through the bottom of my stomach, leaving a flutter of butterflies scattering through my very being. My weak knees held long enough for me to get the rest of myself back in order and he smiled and walked up the hill.

I know. Yes. I'm aware Caleb does this on purpose.

And it works.

Let me entertain you.

I've come here to sell you my body
I can show you some good merchandise
I'll pull you and I'll pill you
I'll Cruella De Vil you
And to thrill you I'll use any device

We'll give you crazy performance
We'll give you grounds for divorce
We'll give you piece de resistance
And a tour de force
Of course

After several hours of walking the halls, terrorizing gift-shop volunteers and staring into bottomless cups of coffee Ben sits back in his chair and stretches, clearly restless. I am reading and loathe to put the book down so I sling my bag toward him and he catches it in his hands, plunking it into his lap and pulling open the zipper. Finally, something to do, he says.

I'm never exactly sure why he doesn't play games on his phone or something but Ben travels very light and is weirdly terrified of becoming attached to his phone. This is the longest he's ever had the same one, all previous ones would be stolen/left or misplaced in hotels worldwide. He's not good at keeping things secure. Maybe it's better that he remain ambivalent about the phone after all.

He digs through until he finds the first bit of lip makeup. He unscrews the top and sticks the end in his mouth. He frowns and opens his mouth wide, blotting the end of it on his tongue. LALALALALA he says. Yuck. What the hell is this, Bridget?

Lip stain, I tell him, deadpan. I'm trying not to laugh. It's supposed to be a serious day. Lochlan's getting the first of the last casts. We have given the power tools to Sam until Lochlan is healed so that he won't get out of it at the first sign of discomfort. I am holding my breath that this works or he is facing surgery and a lifetime of never throwing fire or pulling me out of the ocean with one arm ever again.

Why is it different? He is painting his tongue with it. He reaches out and grabs my arm and uses the lip stain to draw a heart on my upper arm with an arrow through it. He writes MOM in the centre and then draws another arrow pointing toward my face. I am frowning too now.

Don't waste it, it costs twenty dollars.

I'll buy all of them for you, then. Only it's gross. Tastes like a marker. He tries a second one. Same face. LALALALALALALA he sings again as he taps it on his tongue.

Exactly.

Why did you buy that instead of all the fruity yummy greasy deliciousness?

I got tired of the wind sticking my hair to my lips.

Was it the wind or just a good hard-

It was the wind. I don't wear lipgloss at night.

Maybe you should start. He wagged his tongue at me. It's striped red and pink now. I finally allow myself some out-loud laughter and resolve to wear the sticky stuff, even if it sticks to everything.

I start to tell him that, but he has moved on and is now taste-testing an orange mini-sharpie.

I didn't even know that was there. Should have used it on my lips.

Or maybe on his.

Tiny halcyon glows.

Don't put that on. It doesn't fit you anymore.

He is standing in the doorway smiling at me. I scowl and turn back to my reflection. Says who? I ask myself in the mirror.

I say. The color keeps you in the shadows and the fabric weight is far too much for a day like today. Plus it's one of your history dresses and this is a new day.

He is right. The heavy black vintage brocade is against everything today stands for in sunshine and warm wind. This is a mourning dress and rare is the day I don't pull out one of these first, before I'll consider something lighter, or maybe even jeans and a stolen band t-shirt.

Who let you in anyway? I scowl. I am still thinking, still considering. It's comfortable. And I like being in the shadows. I like keeping my head on my sleeve so they can see inside. Anything else is not me and I have had enough of strangers for now.

You did.

Maybe that was a mistake.

He crosses his arms and grins. I doubt it. You don't even have to get dressed to talk to me here.

You like that, don't you, Jacob?

My favorite part of the day was watching you roll out of bed with nothing but long hair and a sleepy smile.

Life was simpler then.

No, life was terribly complicated. Just like it always is, princess. Now, then. It makes no difference. You find the good parts and bear the rest.

Easy for you to say. Also hypocritical.

I was speaking about you, not about myself.

Right. Black dress it is, then. I shrug it over my head and when I pull it down he is gone.

***

Ben comes in and goes straight for Lochlan. They have their own language these days and I'm a little bit on the outside. He kisses the top of my head as he passes and asks Lochlan for an update on his hand. I had to take Loch in today for yet another x-ray and complimentary lecture. They're talking about surgery and titanium and horse tranquilizers and straight jackets and whatever else it's going to take at this point to heal him and keep him from using that arm.

Yes, they did indeed point out if he were to stop sawing off casts and punching Caleb he'd probably be all better already. I'd just like all of them to stop fighting, since it obviously serves no purpose except to illustrate how bloody angry they are at one another half or all of the time. That and I thought the days of everyone wading in to tear two brawling men apart ended when Cole and Jacob (the original dinner party brawlers) both took their leave of the planet.

I asked both Caleb and Lochlan separately if they wanted out of the current living arrangements.

Both said no.

So I said if they do it again, the rest of us are going to leave and they can finish each other off. Because hey! I can write a mean obituary. I've had so much fucking practice it's criminal.